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For nearly thirty years I have said “How!” and “Watcheer?” to the Indian, and “Chimo!” to the Eskimo, more frequently than I have greeted men of my own color. For in my case boyhood dreams came true. I came, I saw, and was conquered by the romance of the Silent Places, since when some irresistible urge has carried me by York boat, dog-train and canoe over most of the lakes and rivers of the Northland. In the lodges of the Red Men, and in the igloos of the Huskies, I have learned to know and appreciate the many sterling qualities of these natives.

The North is still vibrant with color, beauty and romance, though this is quickly passing, and in the ensuing pages I have attempted to depict the real North as I knew it; the North of the Fur Trader, the Mounted Policeman and the Indian.

I must, however, ask my readers to be tolerant if this book does not measure up to high literary standards.

Nearly thirty years spent in isolated trading posts, far from the social amenities and “advantages” of civilization, amongst wigwams of Crees, Dog-Ribs and Ojibways does not make for literary style. Those to whom this vast sub-arctic territory is unknown may be inclined to doubt some of the unusual features related in this narrative.

It is, however, just another case of truth being stranger than fiction, though I have endeavored, where possible, to give dependable references in support of incidents which might otherwise appear improbable.

P. H. G.

1104 Byng Place, West,

Fort Garry, Winnipeg, Manitoba, Canada.

May 15, 1934